


Prompt #005 Envy

by kurgaya



Series: Divine Footsteps [29]
Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, OCD, Translation Available, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had spiralled out of control without him noticing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt #005 Envy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зарисовка #005 Зависть](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213117) by [a_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_m/pseuds/a_m)



> More of a character study than an Ichigo/Toshiro drabble, but it is there at the end.
> 
> Please note Ichigo's OCD may be distressing for some.

**Shadows**

Ichigo knew that he hadn’t always had OCD, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had become such a demanding part of his life. It had grown gradually, stalking him like a predator in the night, from around about the time his mother had been killed. That day had changed his life in many ways, and he remembered he hadn’t been able to handle it all of the time – he’d been nine, give him some credit. He couldn’t be sure, but he’d say that his OCD had at first been some sort of coping system for the trauma of seeing his mother brutally murdered before his eyes.

_If I do this then that won’t happen._

Only, it had spiralled out of control without him noticing.

He didn’t think anybody noticed, really. His father and sisters wallowed in their own despair, and while Ichigo was encouraged to attend therapy classes for his mother’s death, the idea that something as _minor_ and _silly_ as OCD could arise was pushed under the carpet. Except it wasn’t minor, and it wasn’t silly. Irrational, yes (even as a child it hadn’t taken him long to realise that), but people who said it was ‘just OCD’ or sufferers were ‘being stupid’ clearly didn’t know anything about what it felt like to be _consumed by the endless abyss of their own mind_. They couldn’t comprehend the internal struggle he had every single day not to give in to the soothing voice of his compulsion screaming in his head. They didn’t know what it was like to stand in the bathroom and check, double check, and triple check constantly for a solid fifteen minutes while the tap ran and his hands shone red with an anger so clean that he was _sure_ Yuzu was restocking the soap dispenser every week. They didn’t understand how much Ichigo hated feeling so helpless to his mind. He was a strong person – he’d survived Hollows and Espada and war and death, yet something as tiny as a single thought was capable of bringing him to his knees.

He was good at hiding it. It wasn’t difficult, since living behind a mask was the norm for him anyway, and people always misjudged him. They thought he was young and naïve. Only a few people (Shinji, Kyoraku, Ukitake, Urahara, Tōshirō – those who knew how to _look_ ) knew that he was actually clever, that he liked to learn, liked to plan, liked to _think_. But even they couldn’t see everything, and Ichigo was _very good_ at pretending. If his OCD hit him during training, when he was surrounded by a dozen, two dozen other people, he’d continue smiling and laughing while his brain shrieked at him and his hands itched and his feet twitched with the need to find the nearest bathroom and _turn on the tap for God’s sake before he_ –

There was nothing more important than being clean. Not just in the morning or after a rather vigorous training session, but all of the time. His hands were tainted with his mother’s blood; he could feel it staining his skin, like a mark, a beacon screaming his failure. _He had to be_ _clean_. And not just for himself, but for others.

 _I hurt her, I might hurt them too_.

Ichigo tried to control it – tried to counteract it. It wasn’t easy, and he didn’t know if he was doing it right (he’d never told anybody, and he’d been too scared to Google it. He didn’t want to be more of a freak than he already was). He’d take a deep breath wherever he was when it struck, and calmly try to reassure himself; tell himself that taking action wasn’t necessary.

_I don’t need to be clean because no one is going to get hurt. They’re my friends and they mean everything to me – I’d never hurt them. Don’t go into the bathroom. Go read a book. Cook something. Spar against Renji. Just don’t go into the bathroom._

Ninety-nine per cent of the time this didn’t work. He knew it wouldn’t the moment the compulsion started to creep up his neck and flood his brain, but he tried anyway. He _had to_ because he knew the compulsion was unfounded, that what he was feeling wasn’t right, wasn’t logical. He’d repeat this to himself this even as he rubbed soap into his hands.

Ultimately, that was the worst part.  It made him feel like a fool. Sometimes he was sure somebody had noticed his peculiar behaviour – the fact that usually came out of the bathroom red with embarrassment and shuffling his feet along dejectedly was probably the reason for this – but nobody ever made a comment. Shinigami he didn’t know tended to keep clear of him in some wacky, awe-inspired respect, and his friends probably just thought he was weird. Ichigo told himself that he’d rather they not know about it, but sometimes – very occasionally – Renji would do something stupid, or Rukia would get irritated, or Ikkaku would drag him in to spar, and Ichigo would wish more than anything that he could be like them. But that would involve having to sort out his problem, and he didn’t feel confident enough to do that. It wasn’t as simple as just staying away from the bathroom (because he’d love to do that, he really honestly would) since not being able to stay away from the bathroom was the _whole point_ of his OCD in the first place.

_Don’t let them see your hands, don’t let them see the blood. They’ll know what you’ve done, they’ll done what you could do to them._

As much as he didn’t want to, he lived with it. Ultimately he resigned himself to the knowledge that there wasn’t a lot else he could do. It _wasn’t that_ bad anyway. He didn’t have a mental break down every day, though a small part of his brain did suggest that that might be because he had so much self-restraint. His OCD was annoying and it got in the way, but it wasn’t killing him. Thus, with his duties to his friends and family in both worlds, Ichigo concluded that there were more important things to worry about, and that bringing up his erratic behaviour _just wasn’t worth it_.

Tōshirō brought it up eventually, of all people. Realistically this was inevitable, as they’d been dating for the best part of five years at the time. Still, Ichigo was immensely startled when his partner voiced his concern over dinner one night, but efficiently managed to evade any further probing from the ingenious Tenth Division taicho. For the time being, at least. He noticed that Tōshirō started paying a lot more attention, and tried his best to kick his OCD into submission when they were in the same room. Tricky, since they were in an intimate proximity quite a lot of the time (sometimes much more intimate than others), yet somehow Tōshirō waited a solid two months before bringing up the subject again.

“Come to bed,” he called from their room, most likely wrapped up tightly under their thick duvet. Ichigo doubted he’d bothered to put any clothes on after their exploration of each other, and he smiled at the thought. His delight plummeted to the floor, however, at Tōshirō’s next words. “Don’t bring your OCD with you.”

For a second, Ichigo was almost tremendously offended. But he caught himself from where he’d frozen in their en-suite bathroom, and took a deep breath through his nose. He wondered if the sharp noise that echoed in his head could be heard across the room, for Tōshirō responded in kind, calling him softly.

Ichigo realised he wasn’t angry. There had been no doubt in his mind that Tōshirō would work it out eventually – very little got past him – but the stark dismissal had been a surprise. Ichigo had to admit that he’d expected to be lectured, or dragged to the Fourth Division, and he thought a little guiltily that he should have known better. Tōshirō knew him better than anyone, and while his tone showed it was clear that he’d been hesitant at approaching the tentative subject in such a blunt way, he’d been able to gauge the reaction and determined that Ichigo wouldn’t blow up in his face for saying such a thing.

Instead, Ichigo found himself feeling oddly grateful. Tōshirō was trying to assure him that his OCD was irrational. Still, panic set in quickly. The tap continued running, but he carefully dried his hands, walking around the small room a few times like a caged animal. He heard Tōshirō slip on his yukata and exit their bedroom, but even so he couldn’t bring himself to go to bed. He paced the span of the room a couple more times, his nerve exploding with terror, and then the door cracked open and a cup of tea walked in, sweet and steaming.

“I love you,” said Tōshirō, holding a hand out. “Are you done with the towel?”

Ichigo hadn’t even realised he was still holding it. He hesitated, clinging to the fabric reassurance, and glanced over to the sink. Nothing was said for a beat – two beats – then slowly they swapped what they were holding. Tōshirō kissed him on the cheek and turned off the tap. “Drink your tea and come to bed,” he said, eyes bright with encouragement as he wandered back into the other room. He said no more about Ichigo’s behaviour.

Ichigo didn’t either, but he found he didn’t have to. Tōshirō wasn’t after an explanation at that moment, though one would be necessary.

He sipped his tea.


End file.
